Ghost to the Rescue (10 page)

Chief Cobb swung around to look. His gaze swept the area.

I resisted the impulse to draw a happy face. It would have been such fun. But I was mindful of Precepts One and Six. I felt exceedingly virtuous.

“Interesting.” He looked down at the list of conference attendees. “Make an announcement over the hotel intercom. All authors who were clients of Knox are asked to report here.”

I left in good spirits.

Cliff Granger wasn't in the cafe area, on the terrace, or in the lobby. I found him in cabin 6. He sprawled on the sofa, his face somber, arms lying on the back, legs outstretched, a man deep in thought.

In an arbor draped in honeysuckle, I reappeared as Officer Hope. In a few steps, I stood at the door to cabin 6, knocked firmly. “Police.”

Cliff opened the door, looked at me politely. He was impeccably groomed, brown hair smooth against his head, freshly shaven. He appeared equable, relaxed, with no remnant of the somber expression I'd seen a moment ago.

“Mr. Granger, if you have a moment, I have a few questions.” I held out my leather folder.

He gave it a perfunctory glance as he opened the door, stood aside for me to enter. He was natty in a Tommy Bahama shirt, palm fronds against a blue background, slate blue trousers, and expensive black loafers. Now his long face was suitably grave. “Jay's death is a great loss to the college and a shock to me personally.”

I stepped inside. The living area was identical to that of cabin
5 except there was no body lying near the coffee table. I gestured toward the sofa.

He sat down, nodded. “What can I do for you, Officer?”

I sat opposite him in a straight chair. “When did you last see Jay Knox?” I had my trusty notebook in one hand, pen in the other.

His answer was prompt. “Early in the evening. We happened to be walking to our cabins about the same time. Around seven or so.”

“What was his demeanor?”

He looked a bit surprised, shrugged. “Usual Jay. He was a motormouth. I wasn't paying too much attention. He said something about tomorrow being a full day, but he was looking forward to it.”

“Did he mention his plans for the evening?”

“No.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You and Jessica Forbes are from out of town. Did you expect to be taken to dinner?”

Cliff was relaxed. “That came up earlier. I'd already decided to order room service and look over some manuscripts.”

“Do you carry them with you or were these manuscripts submitted to you here?”

“Carry them?” He was appalled. “Nobody reads paper anymore. I look at e-files on my iPad.”

“So you spent the evening in your cabin?”

He flashed a wry smile. “Pretty awful stuff I was looking at. I went up to the bar for a drink.”

“What time did you return to your cabin?”

He looked uncertain. “Hard to say. Maybe ten thirty. Maybe eleven. I wasn't paying any attention. It was a nice night. I strolled around the gardens for a little while.”

“Did you see anyone?”

He turned his hands over in a gesture of dismissal. “I wasn't paying attention. I probably passed some people but I was planning a contact I need to make for one of my clients. I think I know a Hollywood agent who will go nuts for his book.”

“Tell me about Jay.”

“Ours was a business relationship. I represented him.” Cliff's smooth voice rolled on, describing how he'd acquired Jay as a client, the two books that he'd sold, the movie deal that was handled by a California agent. “I don't know much about his personal life.”

“Did you know authors paid him to get their books to agents and editors?”

His long face crinkled in indecision. He seemed to pick his words carefully. “I had heard that he offered a consulting service to authors.”

“Is that ethical?”

He shrugged. “Some authors are willing to pay substantial sums to people they think can get them an entrée to being published. I can tell you”—he was emphatic—“that reputable agents never take money to represent a book. That's against the canon of ethics. We take on an author and if we sell the book we receive a percentage of the royalties. No up-front money.”

“Do you think it was acceptable for Jay to take money from authors?”

A dismissive shrug. “He wasn't an agent. He was a consultant. What he did was up to him. Savvy writers don't go that route.”

“You didn't answer my question.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don't like to criticize Jay when he isn't here to defend himself. His attitude was hard-nosed. He
said if somebody wanted to pay him for making a connection, that was their choice.”

“Did he recommend authors to you?”

“Sure. He and a lot of other people. We get more queries than we can handle. Sometimes I look at the books; usually I decline.”

“Did you take on any authors he recommended?”

“Occasionally.” He smoothed back a lock of hair, looked weary, as if contemplating a tsunami of manuscripts.

“Are any of those authors attending the conference?”

“A couple. There's a woman from Dallas. And a guy from Tuscaloosa.”

“Did you find a publisher for their books?”

“Not yet. I'm still trying.”

“If you don't find a publisher, how do those authors react?”

He looked surprised. “Look, I do my best. I send the books around. When there's a rejection letter, I send it to the author. If I get three or four passes, that's pretty much the end of the story.” He was thoughtful. “Nobody's ever complained. I do what I promise to do. If it doesn't work out, it isn't because I don't try. They can read the rejection letters.”

“Do you know any authors who were unhappy with Jay?”

Cliff shook his head. “We never talked about that.”

I waited. But he was done, regarding me with patient forbearance. This was his opportunity to inform the police about Liz Baker and her angry husband. But he said nothing. I was intrigued. Did he feel sorry for Liz? I wouldn't have expected him to be kindly, but perhaps I did him an injustice. His silence about Liz and her angry husband suggested he felt no personal danger from the police investigation and therefore saw no need to set the hounds in motion after a possible suspect.

I found a table in the main lobby where a conference staffer was handing out box lunches to attendees. My mantra in life—one of them—is that it never hurts to ask. Others? You must be willing to fail to succeed. Smile, and, if the world doesn't smile back, smile again. When you draw a lousy hand, remember the game isn't over. Laughter should always be kind.

I walked up to the table. “Hello.”

The staffer was stout, perspiring, and faintly hostile. She had opened one of the box lunches and was munching on a sandwich. “I'm Officer L—” Oops. “Hope.” I held out my leather folder.

She gave it a perfunctory glance.

“I wanted to tell you how much we”—I was expansive, waving one hand to encompass all the surroundings—“appreciate the cooperation and support of the English Department for our investigation. You have excelled.”

The woman neatly wrapped the remainder of her sandwich in waxed paper. She brushed back an untidy loop of graying hair, looked less stressed. “We want to help.”

I noted her name tag:
Sheila Devon, Administrative Assistant
. “Ms. Devon, are you part of the English Department staff?”

Her fairly heavy face was suddenly less formidable. She looked at me with pride, her light blue eyes attentive. “I am Dr. Randall's secretary.”

“That's splendid. I know you can be a big help. It's important for us to explore Professor Knox's relationships. Obviously, you occupy an important post in the department. I'm hoping you can
share knowledge only you might have about Professor Knox.” My tone was inviting, encouraging.

Sheila's entire demeanor changed. Instead of an overworked woman, resentful at giving up her Friday, she blossomed. “I know a lot about the department. Dr. Randall is wonderful. I'm sure he didn't have much choice about hiring Jay Knox. The family, you know. Everyone remembers his grandfather.” She looked troubled, hesitated, remained silent.

“You can be frank. Any information received during an investigation remains confidential, sources never revealed.” I doubted this was accurate, but it sounded persuasive to me.

Sheila leaned forward, dropped her voice. “To tell the truth, Jay Knox was”—a pause—“well, he was from a fine family and very good-looking, but he was a real womanizer. Last year there was some talk about a party he had at his house, some of the men attending the conference were there, and women were brought in, and you know what that means. His grandfather would have been very upset. Why, the conference is supported by the college, and to have that kind of thing going on is very distressing. And all the while he was acting sweet as pie to Professor Matthews. I should have told her, because I don't think she had any idea, but some things you don't feel comfortable talking about. I heard him one time when I started to open the door to her office, telling her how crazy he was about her, how gorgeous she was, and everybody can tell you, she really is beautiful, but getting older now. Well”—an angry sniff—“this past week she went in his office and the door wasn't quite closed. She asked why he hadn't called and he—oh, it was awful—he wasn't nice at all, he told her he needed some space and
to stop calling him, they'd had some fun together but that train had left the station. When she came out, I could have cried. She looked shocked. I'm surprised she's here at the conference, but I guess she had no choice.”

We parted with smiles. I was almost to the terrace door when she called after me. “Would you like a box lunch?”

“I'm not free for lunch. Yet.” I suppose I looked wistful.

“I'll save a box for you.”

I smiled my thanks. I looked about and was pleased to see Deirdre having lunch with Hal. I wondered how Sam Cobb would feel about this tête-à-tête. They sat at a table near the weeping willow, out of the main traffic flow on the terrace.

I walked briskly to the honeysuckle arbor, stepped inside. After a quick glance, I disappeared.

I slipped into the chair opposite Deirdre.

Deirdre was still wan but her long face was open and unguarded. Her gaze was fastened on Hal as if absorbing his presence, the kindness and reassurance in his face, the warmth of his voice, his solid muscularity.

Hal was being earnest. “. . . have to ask all kinds of questions. You've been very patient.”

She pushed back her sandwich box. “Chief Cobb looks at me like I'm”—she took a quick breath—“a criminal.”

Hal reached across the table, took her hand. “No one can look at you and not see how good you are.”

“Oh, that's lovely.” I placed my fingers over my lips. I'd been touched by the depth of feeling in his voice but that was no excuse for speaking aloud. No one could confuse my voice with Deirdre's—a definite difference in tone, her voice light and clear, mine husky.

Hal looked startled.

Deirdre blurted out, “That wasn't me.”

“I didn't think it was.” He spoke slowly. His face was interesting—uncertainty, concern, a sudden attentiveness. “Who was it?”

“I don't know”—her voice was scarcely above a whisper—“if I can make you understand.” Deirdre brushed back a frizzy lock of hair, and finally, reluctantly, said, “I think she's there but we can't see her.”

Hal slowly nodded, his eyes skewing around the table.

Deirdre took a shaky breath. “This is going to sound kind of crazy.” She stopped, shook her head. “What do I mean,
kind of crazy
? But maybe I can make you understand. I really need to get a book written and sell it, but no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to get started. So I kept thinking, if I could just get some inspiration, I would be all right. And I thought and thought and thought about inspiration and then out of nowhere this really gorgeous redhead—”

Ooh, what a lovely thing to say.

“—showed up and said she was there to help me. She's the one who came last night when Jay was there and said her name was Judy Hope.”

Hal's eyes narrowed. “Red hair? About five foot five? Green eyes?”

Deirdre nodded.

“Judy Hope.” His face was thoughtful, and I had no doubt he was filing
Judy Hope
as an alias for Officer Loy. “Good to know. Well, I wouldn't worry about her. Sometimes it's swell to have an unseen champion.”

“I'm going to need all the champions I can get.” Deirdre's voice was thin. “I'm afraid I'll end up in jail unless they find out who
killed Jay. I don't know that much about Jay, but I think I'd better start finding out. Maybe I can help look for the murderer.”

Hal reached across the table, grabbed her hands. “You can relax. I'll find out what happened. I promise. And now, you get busy with breakfast. You need to keep up your strength. As for the redhead who's sometimes here and sometimes not, we know she's on your side. Like Bill Shakespeare said, ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in our philosophy.'”